Ultras: A Snapshot

The sun beats down on Mike Tselentis as he passes the aid station, grabs two small pieces of watermelon and heads back onto the course at Gibson Ranch.

He has been running for six hours, his 71 year old body showing few signs of strain as the temperature climbs above 90 degrees and the clock ticks past 1 p.m. at this 24-hour endurance run.

How does he feel?

"It's too early to tell," he says.

Nearly 18 hours later, it's too late to care.




 As the sun creeps above the eastern horizon just before 6:30 a.m., Tselentis passes the start-finish line on the .85-mile course for the 83rd time. He has endured 104-degree temperatures, a warm Sacramento summer night and the pain that comes with any ultramarathon.

Tselentis smiles, the music on his headphones drowning out the song playing on a radio behind the aid station.

"I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. . . I can see all obstacles in my way. . . Gone are the dark clouds that had me down. . .It's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day . . . "

At 7 a.m., the race officially ends. Tselentis has run more than 70 miles, well behind winner Jeff Hagen's 121.1-mile total and far short of the 90 miles he normally covers in a 24-hour event.

But for Tselentis, a jewelry wholesaler and retailer from Napa, simply being able to compete in such an event is a major victory.

When he was 44, the 5 foot 9 Greek native lived in the fast lane in Brazil. He says he drank 10 bottles of beer and smoked four packs of cigarettes a day, his weight climbing above 200 pounds.

It was some of Tselentis' younger friends who convinced him to start running. And he has never stopped, competing in 89 ultramarathons, including a six-day run where he completed 312 miles.

"In the beginning, I resisted it," Tselentis said. "But then I said, "OK, I'll run one kilometer.' And I thought I was going to die.. . . From that moment on, I started reducing smoking, reducing drinking and started to train.

"It's a marvelous thing. This movement, to me, it's just like a religion. You see a runner and you see like a brother or a sister. You have respect for them, and they have respect for you."

Ultrarunners - those who compete in events longer than a 26.2-mile marathon - spend their weekends going on 20-and 30-mile trail runs, their sights set on meeting the challenge of whatever endurance event is next on the calendar.

The Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run. . . the Leadville Trail 100. .

the American River 50. . . the Way Too Cool 50K.

All present incredible physical challenges that test the limits of human endurance, with runners risking heat stroke, dehydration, hypothermia, kidney failure and nausea for no monetary reward.

Which raises an obvious question: Why do it?

"Where do you get challenged outside of work?" asks Tim Twietmeyer, a 39 year old Auburn project manager who has won five Western States races.

"It's just kind of putting yourself to the test."

Says Cool's Mo Bartley, a 43 year old ultramarathoner and nurse, "You always want to take it to one more limit, see how far you can push it."

Sacramento's Greg Soderlund, a 50 year old ultrarunner and race director, says he enjoys the uncertainty that comes with endurance events.

"There aren't many things in life now where there's any risk," he says. "Every time you toe the line in an ultrarun, there's a good chance you're not going to finish. That, I find attractive."

Hagen, the 24-hour endurance run's winner, tells a different story. The 51 year old runner from Yakima, Wash., wanted to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather, who once walked 60 miles on a summer day in Minnesota to land a job.

"He walked from 4 in the morning until 10 at night," Hagen says. "I always wondered if I could travel 60 miles in one day. So I entered a 100K (62 miles), just to see if I could do it."

Other ultrarunners suggest a deeper meaning hidden in their quest to test the limits of the human body and mind.

"Out on the trail, you find your soul," says Gary Ritchie, a 58 year old Sacramento ultrarunner. "You might not like what you see, but you find it."

If that's true, a record number of Americans found their souls on the trail in 1997. Last year in North America, 19,100 people started an ultramarathon, and 14,860 finished. That's up from 1990's 11,800 starters and 9,300 finishers.

Most ultrarunners enter several races a year, so best estimates put the number of ultrarunners in the United States at about 5,000.

A sizable number live in the Auburn area, which boasts three of the six largest ultraruns on the continent: the American River 50, the Way Too Cool 50K - formerly known as the Cool Canyon Crawl - and the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run.

"Northern California is probably the hotbed of ultrarunning in the world," Soderlund says. "A lot of people have moved to the area just because of that."

Venture into the ultra world and discover a kinder, gentler type of athlete, people hooked on the sport's camaraderie and willing to go out of their way to help each other out.

In this sport, the runner at the back of the pack is as important as the one at the front. Cooperation gets the best of competition, the best runners often sticking around at the finish or venturing back onto the course to encourage others.

"Everybody does pull for everybody else," says Barry Fisher, a 54 year old ultrarunner from Fair Oaks. "My clearest memory of finishing Western States the first time in 28 hours and something was Tim (Twietmeyer) at the finish track shouting, "Well done, Barry.' "

Hagen sees a big difference between ultrarunners and those who run shorter distances.

"The 10K people, the triathletes seem to be so intense about everything," he says. "Ultrarunners are kind of laid-back; they don't get too excited. When the (24-hour) race was starting, nobody wanted to walk up to the starting line. You do a 10K and people are elbowing, trying to get to the start.

"You'll never find a better bunch of people."

They come from all walks of life - teachers, writers, doctors, nurses, engineers, computer programmers - and race for little more than a wooden plaque or a silver belt buckle.

Most ultrarunners make no money off the sport. For them, the joy that comes with completing an ultra is payment enough.

"At the end of any ultra event, where you've overcome the odds, it's an emotional time," Soderlund says. "Because there was a good chance you weren't going to make it."

Many ultrarunners bristle at the popular notion that they're crazy to torture their bodies and spend an entire day seeing how far they can travel on foot.

"Most ultrarunners, they don't even talk about it with their co-workers," Soderlund says. "They aren't going to understand. They think it's a little bit of a fringe element, but they really are not.

"Once you get people out on the trails, and they find out how beautiful it is, find out it's doable, then they begin to understand what the attraction is."

Bartley, a member of the U.S. team that will compete in the upcoming World 100-kilometer Championship in Japan, says other people's attitudes don't bother her.

"To be honest, I can't explain to them what it feels like to run 100 miles," she says. "Most people, I find they're not ridiculing you. They're kind of almost in awe a human can run 100 miles.

"There's so many things we can do that people don't try."

Spend enough time around ultrarunners and you'll hear one of the sport's mantras: "Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."

The body will revolt at being pushed far beyond the norm. It's how the mind reacts that determines many an ultra outcome.

"The mind is willing, but the body is weak," Twietmeyer says. "You need both."

You also need plenty of nourishment to complete an ultrarun. At the Gibson Ranch 24-hour endurance run, the aid station offered Gatorade, Cytomax, ice water, watermelon, honeydew, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bananas, pineapple, chocolate chip cookies, Ritz crackers, raisins, gummy bears, bagels, Oreos, salt, red potatoes, power bars, M&Ms and peanuts.

Pig out at your own peril.

"I used to eat a lot," Hagen says. "Now that I'm in my 50s, I can't digest it as well.

"Eat a little bit too much, the wrong combination, the stomach gets funny."

Hagen consumed chips, cookies, sandwiches, milkshakes, Mountain Dew floats and plenty of water en route to his victory. But every ultrarunner's body is unique; one person's perfect fuel is another's recipe for nausea.

Twietmeyer, the five-time Western States winner, drinks 16 ounces of fluids every 30 minutes during a 100-miler, opting for water and Cytomax early in the race before switching to Mountain Dew and Coke late in the run. He limits his food intake to pretzels and cookies, getting his calories from liquid drinks like Ensure.

"As you get farther along in one of these races, its really hard to eat and drink," he says. "You have a tendency to get nauseous."

Nausea is the most common problem in an ultrarace. But more serious medical problems like dehydration, kidney failure, heatstroke and hypothermia can occur.

Ultras like the Western States monitor each runner's medical condition at various checkpoints to avoid such problems. And runners use support crews to make sure they're taking care of themselves.

"You end up taking better care of yourself in an ultra physiologically," Soderlund says. "You're replenishing the fuel all the time because you have to."

Says Bartley, "You're much more in tune with your body than, I think, an average person."

Ultrarunners tend to be older, with some subscribing to the belief that if you can't run faster, maybe you can run farther. Runners in their 40s, 50s and 60s are easy to find on the trails.

"The older people have more of a sense of pacing, more dedication to staying out there longer," says Richard Benyo, a veteran ultrarunner and editor of the magazine Marathon and Beyond.

"A lot of it is they find they're not fast enough to be competitive in their age group at marathons, 10Ks, shorter races. It's sort of more of a chance of doing well."

Says Soderlund, "The 10K people are the hares and the ultra people are the tortoises."

Twietmeyer, 39, adds, "There aren't a lot of guys in college dreaming about running their first 100-miler." But Rocklin's Tom Osman, 28, might represent the sport's future.

Osman, who has run four marathons, started reading about ultra standouts like Twietmeyer and Tom Johnson and became hooked on the longer distances.

"It kind of clicked," Osman says. "That was the kind of running I wanted to do."

Osman ran in the Jed Smith 50K and the Cool Canyon Crawl 50K. And after pacing Twietmeyer to victory in the Western States, he hopes to land a spot in that field next June.

"It's kind of a test between yourself and the course," Osman says. "It's not really a race between you and the competitors. From my standpoint, you're racing yourself."

Twietmeyer agrees.

"In the end, it's not an event to beat the next guy," he says. "This isn't like NASCAR - I'm going to drive this guy into the wall. I'm out here to run as fast as I can. If I end up first or 1,001st, it doesn't really matter.

"You live to your standard. People are very comfortable with that."

Could anyone train themselves to finish an ultramarathon?

"I think anybody that is healthy and doesn't have arthritis, anything that would limit their ability to run. . . it just requires some commitment," Soderlund says. "I think it takes a little bit of a compulsive-obsessive personality to want to do this. But not everyone has it."

Says Ritchie, "The one real downside to ultrarunning is the time commitment. You just don't have time. The family suffers."

Unless the family is as hooked on ultrarunning as you are.

"I think a majority of ultrarunners are married to other ultrarunners, or their significant other is an ultrarunner," Fisher says. "It really almost has to be that way. It's pretty difficult for somebody to put up with the time an ultrarunner has to spend."

But ultrarunners say all the time, pain and miles offer a big payoff. To them, the destination is well worth the journey.

"I remember finishing the (Western States) race and thinking there was magic in that," Bartley says. "It's a great feeling.

"I remember thinking, "If I can do this, I can do anything.' "